Chapter 3 - SOVEREIGN BLACKAaron drove almost three blocks before Milo spoke again.
“Are you mad at me?”
Aaron glanced toward him.
“No.”
“You look mad.”
“I am.”
Milo sank slightly in his seat.
Aaron immediately understood.
“At him, Milo. Not you.”
“Oh.”
“I want that part very clear.”
Milo nodded.
Traffic crawled down Wilshire Boulevard beneath the late-afternoon sun.
Aaron kept both hands on the steering wheel.
The anger inside him was not hot anymore.
It was organized.
That was usually when people who knew him best became careful.
Aaron had spent twenty years learning the difference between reacting and deciding.
Chase Barron had slapped his son.
Aaron could have destroyed the man's evening in dozens of immediate ways.
He could have called lawyers.
He could have called people who owned the restaurant.
He could have exposed who he was in front of everyone.
None of those options interested him.
Yet.
What concerned him now was the sentence Chase had whispered.
Kids like you need to learn where they belong.
That wasn't an impulsive outburst after a broken window.
That was worldview.
Aaron pressed a button on his steering wheel.
“Call Dana Brooks.”
The vehicle connected.
Dana answered on the second ring.
“Aaron?”
“I need something.”
“Shoot.”
Dana Brooks had been Aaron's chief of staff for seven years. She knew that tone.
“Chase Barron.”
There was a brief pause.
“As in Barron Atelier?”
Aaron glanced at the road.
“You know him?”
“We've been looking at an investment in one of his companies.”
Aaron's grip tightened around the steering wheel.
“What company?”
“Barron Mobility Holdings. Their acquisition team has been talking to Whitcomb Capital for four months.”
Aaron said nothing.
Dana heard the silence.
“What happened?”
“He slapped Milo.”
Another pause.
A very different one.
“He did what?”
“Outside Bellavere.”
“Is Milo okay?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want security? Counsel?”
“No.”
“Aaron—”
“Not yet.”
Milo looked over curiously.
Aaron lowered his voice.
“I want the investment process untouched.”
Dana understood immediately.
“You don't want anyone retaliating.”
“Correct.”
“And you want Barron reviewed anyway.”
“I want everything we'd normally review before putting investor money under his control. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Dana took a breath.
“I can have the team start tonight.”
“Good.”
“And the assault?”
Aaron looked at Milo.
“We'll handle that separately.”
He ended the call.
Milo stared at him.
“Who's Dana?”
“She works with me.”
“Is she your boss?”
Aaron smiled faintly.
“Some days.”
That finally earned a tiny smile from Milo.
When they arrived home in Pacific Palisades, Milo's mother, Claire, was on a business trip in Seattle.
Aaron had already texted her that there had been an incident but that Milo was safe.
He didn't want her hearing it from someone else.
Milo went upstairs.
Aaron remained in the kitchen.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Bellavere's manager.
Mr. Whitcomb, the payment authorization has cleared. We will wait for the certified repair estimate before processing anything. Also, I have preserved exterior security footage from 4:16–4:27 p.m. Please advise regarding legal release.
Aaron replied:
Thank you. Do not release it publicly. Preserve it.
Another message arrived.
This one from Dana.
You may find this interesting: Chase Barron personally requested to attend the final investment review on Monday. Your name is currently listed as optional on the committee agenda.
Aaron stared at the screen.
He had planned to skip Monday's meeting.
Now he typed:
Change me to attending. Do not tell Barron why.
Across Beverly Hills, Chase was sitting alone in the restaurant bar.
The damaged supercar had been taken to a service facility.
He had ordered whiskey but hadn't touched it.
On his phone was the photograph he had secretly taken of Aaron's black card.
He zoomed in on the platinum emblem.
Then he searched.
Nothing useful appeared.
That made him more uneasy.
His friend Nathan, a private banker, finally answered.
“What is it?”
Chase sent the photograph.
“Recognize this?”
Three dots appeared.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
Then Nathan called.
“Where did you see that?”
Chase sat straighter.
“So you know it.”
“Where?”
“Some guy had one.”
“What guy?”
“A nobody. Gray polo. Old SUV. His kid broke my car window.”
Nathan was silent.
“Chase…”
“What?”
“That isn't a consumer card.”
“I figured that out.”
“You don't apply for it.”
“Then how do you get it?”
“I don't know the exact thresholds.”
“But?”
Nathan exhaled.
“Sovereign Black is a fictionalized private network used among certain family offices and private banking desks. I've only seen references to it in institutional materials.”
Chase's mouth went dry.
“How rich?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Millions?”
Nathan didn't answer.
“Hundreds of millions?”
Still nothing.
Chase leaned forward.
“Nathan.”
His friend finally said, “If the card was real, I wouldn't worry about the window.”
Chase stared at the untouched whiskey.
“What would you worry about?”
“The man holding it.”
The call ended.
For several seconds, Chase sat motionless.
Then one name came back to him.
The restaurant manager had said it.
Whitcomb.
Chase opened his email.
Searched the word.
Dozens of messages appeared.
At the top of one investment thread was a company name.
May you like
Whitcomb Capital Partners.
Chase slowly stopped breathing.
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